


The Touch of Dragon Fire

by thehallsoferebor



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No One Ring, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Graphic Description, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, alternate universe - no dragon sickness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehallsoferebor/pseuds/thehallsoferebor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dwarves knew something had gone terribly wrong when the passageway began glowing brightly, and the whole mountain began to quake beneath their heavy boots. They heard a tremendous crash, as the dragon in the heart of the mountain roared back into consciousness. </p><p>Bilbo Baggins is a survivor of Smaug's fire, sent to the Woodland Realm in order to heal among the elves. He cannot go back to Erebor: the thought of it terrifies him. How can he return, when the thought of the green stone halls and the glinting treasure only brings back memories of being incinerated alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Vanya here. So, I'm being sort of brave here and posting two fics at the same time. This was written before my other fic "An Unexpected Surprise," but, for the most part, I've been working on both simultaneously. We'll see how that turns out, I guess.  
> Anyway, this is going to be a pretty dark fic, I think, but I promise that it'll lighten up! I love these babies too much to have them be in pain forever.  
> Please feel free to tell me what you think about this! Enjoy! :)  
> EDIT, 1/9/2016: I realized that I said that Bilbo's RIGHT side to be damaged, but I meant to say that it was his LEFT side. In Thorin's perspective, it would be the left side of Bilbo that is injured, and to Bilbo, it would be the right side. I wanted to mirror Thranduil's burns, but on the opposite side, because in the Desolation of Smaug he is shown to be burned across the right side of his face. Anyway, that little problem has been fixed!

The dwarves knew something had gone terribly wrong when the passageway began glowing brightly, and the whole mountain began to quake beneath their heavy boots. They heard a tremendous crash, as the dragon in the heart of the mountain roared back into consciousness.

It took Thorin a fraction of a second to bolt down the dark passageway, dread knotting inside his chest, the weight of it feeling heavier the further he hurried deeper into the mountain. Their burglar was inside the mountain with a furious monster! The poor hobbit wouldn’t stand a chance against the ferocious dragon that was Smaug if it came down to any sort of combat. _No one_ could stand a chance, really. Thorin could hear the others shouting and running behind him, but paid them no mind.

He nearly fell off the platform at the end of the hallway when he reached it. He stopped there, glancing around the treasury, piles of gold and silver stacked in high, rolling hills. He walked down a set of stairs slowly, careful not to trip over a misplaced coin or jewel. The treasury was alight, a massive hole blown in the stone entrance above making the treasure twinkle and glow with an eerie, enchanting light. The dragon must have plowed his way out, causing the crash they’d heard earlier. But that mattered little now.

“Bilbo!” Thorin yelled, descending into the hills of gold and silver and delicate jewels. He slipped and stumbled as he searched, under arches, behind columns. The rest of the company, by then, had made their way down into the treasury as well, taking no time to admire the treasure, instead searching for the missing Hobbit.

Calls of “Bilbo!” echoed across the hall, bouncing off of stone walls, distorting and reverberating, sending sound into every corner of the large space. None heard any sort of response, any sort of indication that Bilbo had heard their cries.

Thorin couldn’t control his panic as he searched desperately for Bilbo. He left no mountain of treasure unchecked, no passageway unsearched. And the longer he searched, the more fear welled up in his heart. He couldn’t lose Bilbo. Not like this. If Bilbo were to die like this, it would be entirely Thorin’s fault. And Thorin wasn’t sure he would be able to live with that death on his hands.

He heard the gentlest of whimpers as he inspected what once was an armory. He turned toward the noise, searching further and further in that direction.

It was Bilbo. Bilbo, pressed into a corner, curled up tightly into a ball, his entire body trembling.

“Bilbo?” Thorin didn’t want to scare the Hobbit further, speaking softly. He kneeled, reaching out a hand. He pulled Bilbo toward him, and then almost screamed at what he saw.

His face was dark across one side, flesh singed black and burgundy, skin and muscle peeling away in odd, wet-looking clumps. His left eye was blank, seemingly an empty black socket, his lips pulled taut on one side, blood staining over his teeth and down his chin. Where his hair was once golden curls was now burned beyond recognition, large chunks of hair and flesh missing, other parts singed almost down to the irritated, angrily reddened scalp. His clothes were in ragged tatters, revealing just as tattered and burned flesh beneath. Thorin held his breath, trying very desperately to keep himself from retching at the sight. Tears of absolute shock and horror wetted his cheeks, trailing down into his beard as he picked Bilbo up as gently as he could, turning and running back the way he came.

The rest of the company was aghast at the sight. Once they’d set Bilbo down on a pile of their own cloaks in what was once the throne room, Oin immediately set to work with the few medical supplies they had at hand, sterilizing and bandaging what he could.

“Will he live?” asked Thorin, afraid of what the answer could be. Oin looked up at Thorin, a frown drawing his face.

“It’s not likely,” Oin replied bluntly.

“What can we do?” asked Ori.

It hit Thorin like an arrow to the chest.

“Thranduil,” he murmured, staring down at the Hobbit, who was mostly covered up with bandages.

“ _What?”_ Dwalin growled. “What could that tree-shagger do—?”

“He’s survived dragon fire. We must call for his aid. He’ll know how to fix this,” Thorin said hurriedly, not caring in that moment all of the wrongs Thranduil had done to his people, and to Thorin personally. He couldn’t just watch Bilbo die! He ran a nervous hand through his tangled hair as he thought about what to do, his thoughts in absolute disarray. “Balin!”

“I’ll find a raven,” the dwarf said, hurrying back toward the passageway.

“I need water, quickly. And more clean cloth,” Oin demanded as he inspected Bilbo’s burns, a tight-lipped grimace on his face.

The dwarves were quickly in action. Bombur handed Oin several skins of water, unable to look down at the tattered little hobbit lying on the ground before him. He backed off quickly, retreating with his brothers.

Thorin, on the other hand, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bilbo. This was his fault. Entirely his fault, Thorin thought, heart aching. Thorin had sent Bilbo to his death. This had all been Thorin’s doing. If Thorin hadn’t been so demanding, perhaps Bilbo would still be safe.

Thorin could hardly hear as the other dwarves yelled something about how the dragon had fallen from the sky, how Lake-town was ablaze off in the distance. He kept his eyes on what was left of their burglar, memorizing every scald, every protruding bone, every missing piece of skin and muscle. He couldn’t believe that this being in front of him was Bilbo. They had talked what felt like mere moments ago, outside the mountain. Bilbo had been whole then. Bilbo had smiled at Thorin, had pressed a kiss to his lips, had promised to come back safely. And yet Bilbo was now just barely holding onto his life.

Thorin did not consider himself a religious dwarf. He had lost faith in the Valar long ago, when Smaug first came into Erebor, and at the Battle of Moria, when he saw that vile orc rend his Grandfather’s head from his shoulders, when his father disappeared. He never understood how the Valar could be so _cruel_. How could Mahal allow his children to die in droves as he had? How could any being of power simply stand by and watch everything that had made up Thorin’s world completely crumble around him?

But this moment was different. Thorin still had doubts in the Valar, but he had nothing to lose then. He crouched at Bilbo’s side, taking his not-burned hand in his own, and prayed.

Maybe this time Mahal would actually listen.

               


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Apologies for the short chapter. I'm in the middle of the process of moving back home after finishing a year of college, so this is all I've been able to write, but I hope it's enough for a little bit of story progression, at least!  
> I realize that I've made Thranduil kind of really OOC but hey, I think he's probably at least a little compassionate at times.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Once I'm moved back to my house, I'll be updating more regularly. But for now, I hope that this little tidbit is enough! :)

When a raven soared into the halls of the Woodland Realm, King Thranduil quirked a dark brow, curiosity merging with surprise seamlessly on his pale face. The bird itself was easy enough to recognize: a raven from Erebor, no doubt. The elven king wondered idly what nonsense the message might say as he reached out to take the note from the raven.

Unexpectedly, the slip of paper brought a frown to the lips of the king. He read it thrice to make sure he had read it correctly:

_“King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, requests the assistance of the Elven King Thranduil._

_The fire drake Smaug lived on within the mountain, and has caused grievous injury to one of the members of the Company. Not knowing if Bilbo Baggins, a gentlehobbit of the Shire and the fourteenth member of our Company, will survive the burns bestowed upon him by the great dragon, we humbly request assistance from King Thranduil at any expense._

_A fast response would be greatly appreciated, as we know not how long Mister Baggins will live without assistance of one who has experience with such burns.”_

An irrational tendril of anger shot through Thranduil. The dwarves had sent a creature, not of their own, into the mountain, unknowing if the dragon lived; this poor being, Bilbo Baggins, was now on his deathbed because of the absolute idiocy of Thorin Oakenshield and his Company.

Thranduil, of course, knew of hobbits. The halflings were a gentle folk, who preferred homely comforts over adventure. Though their ancestors told a different tale, the hobbits of modern day remained in their little burrows. That one such creature had followed the exiled King under the Mountain was absurd.

Thranduil knew that when his guard had captured the dwarven company, there had been thirteen members. Thirteen particularly _dwarven_ members. There had been no hobbit among them, but now, inside the Lonely Mountain, there was.

Perhaps it was a ruse. Perhaps Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror was concocting a plan to capture Thranduil within the mountain by playing at the one most sensitive area of Thranduil’s subconscious. Yet, the more Thranduil thought of it, the less the idea of it all being a set-up made sense. Why would Thorin choose a hobbit as the creature to write his lies of? Of all races of beings, why would the once-King choose _hobbits?_ It was too absurd to be a lie. There was a dying hobbit in the Lonely Mountain.

The touch of a dragon’s fire was not something Thranduil would wish upon any being. He himself had felt that agony, which haunted him even now. He felt the dull thrum of pain across the left side of his face, stronger now with the mention of dragon fire. Thranduil knew that the hobbit would die if not treated properly, that he would be forever marred by the dragon’s touch.

Against his better judgement, Thranduil stood from his throne, descending the steps with a practiced ease.

“Tauriel,” said Thranduil softly as he walked forward with an unusual rush in his step.

“My Lord?” came her voice, as Tauriel emerged from the shadows. Thranduil took no moment to look at her. Tauriel followed Thranduil as he walked.

“We ride to Erebor at dusk,” answered the King.

“Why?” the question slipped from Tauriel’s lips before she could realize that she was defying orders by questioning her king.

“The dragon under the Mountain has been awoken,” replied Thranduil.

Tauriel’s face paled at the thought. So the dwarves had actually done it, then. They had made it to the mountain, and they had awoken the beast within its lair. And now that monster was likely wreaking havoc upon all who were unlucky enough to be in proximity of the mountain.

“I will prepare the guard, my Lord,” Tauriel said. With a nod from Thranduil, the leader of the guard left to prepare her men for the journey to Erebor.

As he dressed for the journey, Thranduil began to realize how absolutely _mad_ this all was. He, of all people, was off to save a dying hobbit in a dragon-infested mountain at the request of an idiotic dwarven king. It was a ridiculous notion, but Thranduil knew that without the assistance of the elves, the creature, along with any other people who had been in the mercy of the dragon, would die.

Thranduil had never been known for being a sympathetic being. He preferred to keep his interests and his people within the safety of their woodland home. Worrying about those on the outside was too stressful, the dangers of the outside world too common and too great. The elves of Mirkwood _stayed_ in Mirkwood.

But he knew that this circumstance was different. For a fire drake to have been angered and set free to destroy anything and everything in his path was certainly a concern for the elven king. There was an uncertainty as to whether or not the beast was dead, and there was an opportunity that, if the beast still lived, it would set the Mirkwood ablaze.

Thranduil supposed that, when putting it that way, his sudden journey to Erebor seemed reasonable. The safety of every person within proximity of the Lonely Mountain was in danger if Smaug were still alive. Though Thranduil was going to Erebor for a very different purpose, he assured himself in a way that it was not all as absurd as it sounded. A king had to be certain his people were safe, after all.

As dusk, Thranduil led his guard to the mountain, its surface glowing in the light of the flames of Lake-town burning on the water below.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!  
> So sorry for the long wait for this chapter! I've been so very busy. Unfortunately, I most likely will not be able to update for at least another week and a half, because I'm going to be visiting some family in Washington D.C.! We'll have to see, though. I might be able to figure something out!  
> Also, this chapter is completely Thorin-centered, and is pretty much a filler. But not to worry! All of the exciting action will be coming very soon!  
> Enjoy, and feel free to tell me what you think! :D

Thorin paced through the halls nervously. He hadn’t wanted to leave Bilbo’s side, but upon the insistence of Balin, the King under the Mountain had taken to surveying the ruins of the place he once called home.

Dread sat in his gut like a stone. He hoped with every fiber of his being that Thranduil would respond to the raven and send help. It was humorous, that after all of the pain and misery inflicted upon him and his people by Thranduil’s decisions, Thorin was practically on his hands and knees begging for the assistance of the elven king. If Thranduil were to actually come to their aid, Thorin would be both completely stunned and absolutely relieved.

He stalked through the halls with a frown on his lips, growing wearier and wearier as the amount of corpses he discovered grew, and the toll of the dragon’s destruction continued to rise. The mountain’s great halls of emerald were almost unrecognizable in their ruin and years of disuse, areas quite literally falling apart at the seams. The dragon had destroyed whole rooms in its quest to hoard all of the precious gems and metals of the mountain.

Thorin dared not wander into the royal wing of the mountain, a deep-rooted fear in his heart about what he might find there simmering hotly in his mind. He wasn’t sure his heart could take seeing his parent’s old rooms or even those of him and his siblings, as all of those fond memories had been destroyed so very long ago. The inspection of the royal wing had been something he had wanted to do with his sister-sons and Bilbo, so as to have the support he knew he was going to need upon seeing the ruins of his childhood lain before him. He supposed now that likely would never happen, as Bilbo was near death in rooms below him. A wisp of a sigh left Thorin’s lips as he continued inspecting what was once his home.

He found the libraries and kitchens mostly intact; it seemed the dragon had no interest in the literary and written treasures of the Ereborian people, much to Thorin’s relief. Albeit very, very dusty, the books were in decent condition on their shelves. The kitchens, similarly, were dusty and moldy from decades upon decades of disuse, but for the most part, the same as they had been when Erebor was still habitable. The two areas would be able to be recuperated without too much difficulty, Thorin thought, which meant just a tad less work than the dwarven king had initially expected.

Thorin pointedly avoided the treasury for fear of invoking the madness he knew ran in his veins; he could not be distracted from what was important to him, not even by the innumerably valuable gold that lay far below his feet. It was cursed, Balin had said. Cursed by the dragon’s touch.

It didn’t take long for Thorin to grow completely weary of his duty to survey the ruins of Erebor. He had a sudden itch to see the sun, to breathe crisp air as opposed to the musty, pungent, stagnant air of the mountain. Thorin headed out through the wreckage that was once the front gate and up to the ramparts, the winds frigid against his cheeks, turning ruddy red in a moment. 

The sun was just beginning to set, painting the barren landscape in hues of orange and red. It was almost beautiful, in its own, sad way, to see what was left of Dale rising up in the distance, and the seemingly cheerful twinkling waters of the lake below not giving away the fact that the town upon it had been razed to ashes.

Thorin leaned against the familiar stones, looking at nothing in particular. His head hurt, a dull throb at his temple that had continued to worsen as Bilbo remained asleep but near death. He rubbed a tight circle at his temple, hoping to assuage the ache. His eyes slipped shut, the chill in the breeze and the silence in the air unsettling after months of noise and action. He remained there for a time, unseeing and desperately attempting to be unfeeling.

The ruffling of feathers and the loud call of a raven forced Thorin from his attempted reverie. His eyes opened to see a sleek, blue-black raven awaiting him with knowledgeable, pale eyes staring into Thorin’s own.

Thorin carefully took the message from the bird’s leg, thanking it softly for its work before the bird gave him a nod of acknowledgement and flew back over the rampart and toward the distant forest. The dread that Thorin had felt that whole day grew worse as he stared at the paper in his palm. Steeling his resolve, he unfurled the message, and read it twice to be sure of its words:

“ _King Thranduil of the Woodland realm has agreed to send assistance to Thorin, King under the Mountain, and rides now to Erebor.”_

Thorin let out a breath he hadn’t realized that he had been holding.

The elves were coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know it's been almost a month. I've had some crazy writer's block and it's been terrible! But hey, I managed to put together this very depressing (sorry) chapter for you guys!
> 
> NOTE: This is a chapter that goes back in time to before/during the first chapter, but by the end finishes past the end of the third. Also, be warned: there are pretty graphic descriptions of gross things. Sorry.
> 
> Check the chapter notes at the end for more info/explanations.
> 
> Also, PLEASE let me know what you guys think of this fic so far! I'd love to hear from you! Comments make my day infinitely better when I receive them :D  
> Enjoy!!

Bilbo was afraid.

No; the violent rush pounding through his veins was not simply _fear._ It was more grotesque than that, more crude and powerful, twisting and churning in his gut in sickening waves. Bilbo Baggins had known the very moment he had stepped into the Lonely Mountain that all would not end well.

He had no way to hide from the beast slumbering within Erebor. Bilbo had unintentionally roused the dragon, angered it with his fumbling words and half-baked explanations, his tumbles and skids as he had attempted to escape Smaug’s wrath. No matter how fast he ran, or how deft his evasion was, Bilbo Baggins was no match for Smaug.

One moment, Bilbo was hurtling around the corner of a large pillar of emerald stone, very cautiously peering out from behind it to track the dragon hunting him. The next moment, the pillar had been engulfed in flames, the hobbit along with it.

The pain was unimaginable; Bilbo felt every blistering crack of flesh, every bursting blood vessel, his eye smoldering within the socket and his vision blackening across one side, before the pain simply vanished. Of course, Bilbo knew that something was horribly wrong, but he was still able to run, to hide from the great dragon at his heels.

Around bends and mountains, across long stretches of innumerable gold, the Hobbit ran, each breath a sobbing wheeze that made his lungs burn harder rather than give him relief. He careened through a doorway, stumbling into a dark corner. Bilbo could still hear the flames roaring in his ears, though Smaug had already left the mountain, on to destroy the men on the Lake who he had allotted blame for the appearance of the so-called Barrel Rider and his dwarven companions.

 _“You are being used, Thief in the Shadows,”_ Smaug had told him, _“_ _You were only ever a means to an end.”_

A means to an end. Had Thorin _used_ him? Had Bilbo’s whole venture into the mountain been solely as some sort of bait for the dragon, rather than as a member of the Company? Had the dwarven king truly cared so little about him, so little that Bilbo’s life was disposable if it meant the Arkenstone could be returned to its rightful owner?

_“The coward Oakenshield has weighed the value of your life and found it worth nothing.”_

Nothing. Bilbo’s life had meant _nothing_ to Thorin. That was why Bilbo was where he was, huddled up in a dark corner of an unknown room, cowering under the watchful eye of a dragon.

Bilbo Baggins was no dwarf, and nor would he ever be. Perhaps _that_ was why Thorin Oakenshield had so desperately needed a burglar. He could not bear losing one of his own kind; it was easier for the great King under the Mountain to throw away the life of a stranger, of a mere _hobbit_ of no value to him. It almost made Bilbo want to laugh, had he not been utterly paralyzed with fear. Thorin had been his _lover,_ his _closest friend,_ the _one_ person with whom he could confide in after all of the trials and mishaps they had faced together. And now Bilbo knew the truth. He was being used. Smaug had been right.

The darkness of the room only grew darker, the roar in his ears growing louder and louder though the room was deathly quiet. A whimper left his lips unintentionally, startling him, breath halting for a long, horrified moment, sure that the dragon had heard him.

Bilbo could not hear it as the dwarves called out for him, as they searched all across the glittering, golden landscape for him. He could not hear Thorin’s voice growing hoarse, the panic growing in his tone the longer Bilbo remained lost. Bilbo couldn’t see the glow of Thorin’s lantern as he had approached, hours later. And when Thorin had carried Bilbo from that room of pure darkness, that same darkness followed him. He fell into a deep sleep, just a step away from death.

* * *

 

Everything in Bag End was just the same as he had left it before the journey, Bilbo noted with glee. Every painting was on the wall, every doily was in place, every book was in its categorized, alphabetized order on the shelves by subject, just as he had left them. He noted the lack of dust in the air and on the floor as he ambled into his kitchen to prepare himself a nice cup of tea.

He took pleasure in the comforting scents of chamomile and mint that wafted through the air as he steeped his tea. A spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream later, Bilbo found himself curled up in his favorite armchair, a soft quilt laying across his lap, a pleasantly warm tea cup full of fragrant herbal tea in hand. Everything was as it should be, yet there was something pestering him, a constant, unpleasant nagging of _something_ at the back of his mind, which he could not place. He ignored it the best he could, bringing the mug to his lips.

Before he could take a sip, the bell at the door was rung. With a heavy sigh, Bilbo stood, setting aside his quilt and his tea with a grimace. Who could be at the door? Was it Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, as spiteful as ever, ready to argue over whatever trivial circumstance she decided to bring to his attention? Could it be Hamfast Gamgee, to compliment Bilbo on how beautiful his garden was that day, or to discuss how the crops were faring that year? Upon opening the door, Bilbo Baggins found neither hobbit, but rather a _dwarf._

Thorin Oakenshield stood in the doorway, looking regal in robes of blue, embroidered with threads of silver and gold, tiny jewels that glittered like starlight lining the collar of his robe. A heavy crown of ebony and gold rested upon his head matching the armor covering his chest, his hair braided elaborately with silver beads embedded with sapphires and gleaming diamonds that shone as bright as the Arkenstone, tiny, elaborate rune carvings adorning each one. The King smiled at Bilbo, eyes shining a vibrant blue.

“Thorin?” Bilbo found himself asking. “Shouldn’t you be…?”

“I came to visit you, my dear burglar,” answered the dwarf before Bilbo could finish his sentence. “Might I come in? It has been a long journey, and I am weary.”

Bilbo stepped aside with a nod, Thorin sweeping past him and into the hobbit’s hallway, looking too large and too regal for such a commonplace setting. Bilbo closed the door, eyes on Thorin.

Thorin sat himself down in Bilbo’s armchair, making it appear like a throne rather than a simple chair. He looked around curiously.

“How are the others?” Bilbo questioned curiously. “And the boys—Fili and Kili? Are they alright?”

“Ah, yes. The Company has taken well to Erebor,” replied Thorin. “Fili and Kili are currently under the careful eye of their mother while I am away.” Thorin laughed, soft and low in his throat.

They continued in this way, one asking questions for the other to answer. The afternoon eased into nighttime, the two still chattering away amiably. They filled the Smial with laughter and cheer, even the darkest corners seemingly alight.

And then it all _warped._ Bag-End was not alight with laughter: it was aflame. Bilbo found himself unable to move, as if held down in his chair by an unseen force, forced to watch as all of his parent’s belongings began to burn around him. Bilbo’s screams caught in his throat as he watched Thorin standing among the flames, a horribly twisted grin etched across his face. He seemed immune to the fire which trailed across Bilbo’s skin in blistering tendrils of pain.

Thorin’s eyes were no longer blue. They were completely gold, long, snakelike slits taking the place of his pupils. His teeth began to deform as he snarled, lips curling back as his teeth grew sharp and slick with saliva, his cheeks first glowing red and then burgundy, skin cracking sharply into scales. Thorin brought a hand to his chin, flesh slipping free with every touch, pieces of beard and nose and lip falling away only to be immediately replaced by scales and protruding in a semblance of a dragon’s muzzle. Bilbo could barely breathe as horned ridges sprouted from Thorin’s forehead, the crown of his forefathers splitting into pieces before falling, crashing into the flames and beginning to melt. The once-dwarf’s body lunged forward onto all fours, the sound of the sickening _cracks_ of his bones breaking and reforming filling the air. The clothes he wore tore sharply as wings burst through the skin of his back, the bones of his spinal cord rising up into a ridge of thick crimson scales.

Bilbo felt as if he was going to be sick, but he still could not move. He was frozen in place, unable to do anything as Thorin’s body continued to contort out of shape.

The creature that was once Thorin smiled at Bilbo, a forked tongue reaching out to lick split, bloody lips, seemingly unaware of the violent changes occurring to the rest of him.

 _“I am the fire that will destroy you,”_ ‘Thorin’ said, his voice an all-too familiar rumble that made Bilbo’s hair stand on end. This monster was no longer Thorin Oakenshield.

It approached him, hulking steps uneven and awkward as its limbs were shifting from human to dragon. It stopped right before Bilbo, reaching out a half-human hand toward him. The hand touched Bilbo’s face, palm familiar and calloused, but the sharp, knife-like claws that had replaced fingers dug deep into Bilbo’s cheek. Bilbo tried to scream once more, but yet again no sound came out. He could not even blink as he stared into the horrible beast’s face. The smile it gave him simply grew wider, flesh tearing and healing over itself again and again, the congealing blood hardening into shiny scales along its long muzzle.

 _“I am the death that will claim you,”_ it hissed at him, eyes narrowed and burrowing holes straight through Bilbo’s eyes and into his skull. Its clawed hands gripped Bilbo’s arms tightly, a hot rush of blood pouring from the wounds they caused.

The beast opened its maw wide, and Bilbo knew for certain that he was going to die.

And then a white light exploded through the windows, extinguishing the flames in a sudden wave. The monster’s horrified screams tore at Bilbo’s eardrums. The light seared off the scales and ridges, the wings and tail disintegrating into ash under the light’s power. Once more, Thorin stood before Bilbo, though only momentarily, he too disappearing as the monster that had grown from his flesh had done. Bilbo was left alone in the blinding light, held in place by a comforting grip that soothed him to his very core. His fear dissipated, and calm reigned in his thoughts. He was safe now, in the light which took from him all pain and all sorrow.

The soft lull of sleep began to call to him, his body growing relaxed and warm and comfortable. Somewhere, far away it seemed, Bilbo could hear chanting, though he could not tell where it came from, or what was being said. It mattered little now, he supposed as his eyelids drooped and his lips tugged into a yawn.

Bilbo Baggins fell into a restful, dreamless sleep, cocooned by the white light that had saved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry about all that sad business! Our little Bilbo is quite traumatized from the horrible events that have happened to him.  
> A reminder that this is a No One Ring fic, so poor Bilbo was sent into the dragon's den with literally no protection whatsoever!  
> As for Bilbo's nightmare, I feel like it was a subconscious premonition for what he believes will happen to Thorin once he becomes King Under the Mountain.  
> And with that, I will leave you all for now! Until next time!! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! <3 I'm so excited to bring you guys this chapter! The plot is actually moving along, and cool stuff is going to happen soon!  
> This chapter moves rather slow and is kind of long, but it's necessary for the advancement of the plot, so please bear with me!  
> I wanted to make sure that this chapter was posted before this weekend, because on the 24th of this month, I'll be leaving to work at a camp for kids with diabetes, and i'll be gone for about 10 days. So sit tight until then!  
> As always, please feel free to leave me a message or a kudos. I really appreciate every single one! :)  
> Enjoy! <3

 

There was no fanfare when Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, entered the Lonely Mountain with a small group of guards; rather, the once bustling mountain city was deathly quiet, the hush of tense apprehension and dread thrumming in the stale air. With a sense of desperate defeat clinging to his skin, the King under the Mountain led Thranduil to the makeshift infirmary, where Thranduil left two guards to stand post outside as he entered, sending the rest to accompany the remaining elven guards on the journey to what remained of Lake-town.

The tiny being that lay, prone and deathly still, upon the threadbare sheets barely looked like a hobbit, or any living creature. If it were not for the barely noticeable shift in the sheets from the hobbit’s breathing, Thranduil would have believed the poor little thing to be dead. Bile rose in Thranduil’s throat as the smell of charred flesh hit his nose, too horribly familiar.

Gently tugging the sheets away, Thranduil realized the full extent of the burns that had been hidden. The Hobbit’s left side, from his scalp down to his stomach, had felt the dragon’s fire. Along with the left arm, which was patchy, burned most about the shoulder and the wrist while the elbow joint had been left unharmed, in addition to a large portion of his body being burned, the Elven king was amazed that the creature could have survived.

Thranduil tugged off his cloak, dropping it unceremoniously on a chair before returning to the hobbit’s side, pressing a hand to the unharmed side of his face. Thranduil could feel the lull of the creature’s peaceful dreams below his fingertips. Frowning, he pulled his hand away, rolling up his sleeves.

“How long has he been unconscious?” he asked.

“A day. Two, at most,” replied one of the dwarves behind him. “We’ve kept him cool and cleaned his wounds as best as we could, but…”

“Nothing draws him from his slumber,” finished Thranduil.

He glanced about the room, pale eyes falling upon a large stone fireplace dusty with centuries-old ash that stood, tall and imposing, upon the wall opposite the bed. He motioned toward it. “Light that, and make sure to keep it thus. He must be kept warm at all times whilst he is injured. Keep boiling water at the ready, for we will need it to properly clean his wounds, and bring me kingsfoil.”

Thranduil was pleasantly surprised by the willingness of the dwarves to do his bidding, not a single one arguing against nor refuting the elven king’s commands. Looking back down at the hobbit, he realized how much this small, fragile being meant to the dwarves.

“Can you heal him?” asked Thorin Oakenshield as he approached, voice low and desperate. Thranduil lifted his eyes to meet the dwarf’s gaze, noting the exhaustion in the pull of skin below the dwarf’s weary and guilt-filled eyes.

The two looked down at the sleeping hobbit. “I believe I can,” replied Thranduil. He was merciful enough to say something hopeful to the dwarf, though he was not absolutely certain that the hobbit would survive such horrific wounds.

“I… Thank you for coming here,” Thorin said honestly, a tone he had not heard from the dwarf since he had been a mere child. “None of us know how…”

“I am the one with the most experience,” Thranduil continued for him. “I, who bear the scars of the fire drakes of the North.”

Thorin raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, taking a deep, steadying breath that trembled ever so slightly, his shoulders tensing up. The elven king watched in something akin to awe as the dwarf tried his very best not to cry. Thranduil’s thick eyebrows drew together, confusion in his face.

“Who was this hobbit to you?” Thranduil questioned, his voice gentle.

“Bilbo… was my burglar,” Thorin answered, a choke of a laugh leaving his lips, which drew up into a wisp of a smile. “A well-to-do hobbit suggested to me by Gandalf to be the fourteenth member of our Company. He has saved my life more times than I can count.”

Thranduil noted the softness in Thorin’s eyes as he talked of the hobbit. It was not difficult to see the love there, buried deep below the regret that swallowed him.

“He even helped us escape from your prison,” Thorin added, a trace of humor in his tone. Thranduil was taken aback, a wan smile appearing on his lips.

“So he was the mastermind behind your absurd escape,” Thranduil mused, unthinkingly reaching down to brush a stray curl away from the burned portion of Bilbo’s forehead. “I would like to know how such a slight creature managed to evade my guards and invent such a brilliant escape.”

The two kings went silent then, Bilbo’s labored breathing and the sharp crackling of the fireplace the only sounds filling the emptiness.

Thranduil bit his tongue, holding back from saying what he truly thought of the dwarf. His words would surely break the dwarf’s tenuous grip on calm.

If Bilbo Baggins had saved Thorin’s life so many times, and had meant so much to the dwarven king, how had he been able to so readily send the hobbit into a dragon-infested mountain? Sending the hobbit into danger made the feelings that Thorin seemed to feel appear false, only at face-level. The sole reason that Bilbo Baggins had been burned half to death was standing before him. Thorin was the reason. The beginnings of anger brewed deep within Thranduil’s chest the more he thought of Thorin’s folly.

As if Thorin had read his thoughts, the dwarf seemed to crumble in on himself. He angrily wiped at his face clean of any potentially straying tears, leaving dull red streaks behind. Thorin kneeled, taking Bilbo’s uninjured hand in his own, pressing the small hand to his cheek. He took a deep breath.

“It’s all my fault,” murmured Thorin. “I did this to him. He loved me, and I repaid him for his love with danger, pain and suffering. I will always bear shame in my heart, for as long as I shall live, I’ll be known as the one who led Bilbo into such peril.”

Thranduil watched the dwarven king cry with no emotion in his eyes. Thorin deserved the pain, Thranduil thought to himself, but the pain he had inflicted upon his so-called “love” would forever be worse.

The door creaking open made Thranduil turn, to see a stout dwarf with an elaborately braided beard of silver enter. The dwarf approached, handing Thranduil a basket of kingsfoil.

“We brought as much as we could,” said the dwarf, nodding towards the kingsfoil. “Not much of it grows on the mountain.”

“This shall do, Master Dwarf,” answered Thranduil. With a curt bow, the dwarf left. Only moments later, another dwarf entered, one with an oddly shaped hat that sat, lopsided, upon a head of equally oddly shaped hair.

“The water, your, uh, highness,” he said, setting a put full of steaming water on the table at the bedside. He pulled a bundle of rags from his pockets, setting them alongside the pot.

“Keep more water at the ready. I will need more,” Thranduil told him. The dwarf nodded, bustling out as quickly as he came in.

Turning to the still distraught dwarf kneeling on the floor, he could not suppress the coldness in his tone. “You must leave,” Thranduil said sharply.

Thorin looked up at the elf with red-rimmed eyes. He looked once more upon Bilbo, kissing the hobbit’s palm with care before delicately setting down the soft hand, standing and straightening his stance as he walked away.

“Do whatever you can to save him. I will pay you anything, no matter the cost,” Thorin said gruffly, voice thick from crying.

Thranduil said nothing, simply turning towards the water and wetting a clean rag until he heard the door click shut.

He began with Bilbo’s chest, pressing the damp rag against each crevice and dimple, cleaning thoroughly. The water was quickly stained a murky red as Thranduil continued to wash the hobbit’s skin clean of potential infection.

Bilbo’s heart rate increased exponentially with the growing heat of the room. Thranduil pressed a hand to the hobbit’s uninjured cheek, feeling the panicked thrum of a nightmare pulsing through his mind. It was familiar to Thranduil, to have nightmares as such. When he had first felt the searing touch of dragon fire, he had had nightmares for years upon years, which still haunted him. Each dream made him recollect the feeling of his skin melting away into nothing, a sensation that plagued his bones and his flesh even now.

The dwarf who had brought the water came again, to bring more at Thranduil’s beckon. He took away the first pot of water, his face twisted with sadness as he looked upon the hobbit’s burns. The dwarf tore himself away as fast as he could, once again leaving Thranduil alone with Bilbo.

Thranduil ground the kingsfoil between his palms into a pastelike consistency, layering it thinly across the burned areas of Bilbo’s body. It was not enough, but Thranduil made do with what little he had. He kneeled close then, hands hovering over Bilbo’s burns.

 _“Menno o nin na hon I eliad annen annin hon leitho o-ngurth,”_ he chanted, his palms beginning to glow faintly. He first focused his energy on Bilbo’s face, thinking on how the skin should lay, where his eyebrow would be, how his eye would look closed, where traces of wrinkles would settle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Thranduil could feel Bilbo’s mind grow at ease as Thranduil worked, glad in some way that the hobbit seemed approving of his actions.

He repeated the process over and over again, across each inch of burned skin, feeling the hobbit’s body respond and slowly begin to heal itself upon his command. It was painstaking work, which tugged at Thranduil’s energy levels. He was resilient, though, and would not cease until his work was finished.

Hours had passed before Thranduil could assure himself that he was finished, and with fingers trembling from exertion, he wiped away the remains of the kingsfoil paste from Bilbo’s body. The skin beneath was red and shiny, angrily irritated, but _healed_ , in a way that Bilbo’s body never would have been able to recover itself. Bilbo’s dreams had turned gentle, Thranduil felt, his heartbeat and breathing evened. It pleased him to know that the hobbit was sure to live.

As Thranduil stood, he felt an irritating weakness about his knees, his old bones weary from the use of so much magic. He steeled himself, though, heading for the door.

In the emerald hall he found the whole troop of dwarves waiting, some sleeping, while others turned sharply to look up at Thranduil. His men stared at him with concern, which Thranduil shrugged off.

Thorin was the first to stand. He approached the elven king quickly, moving too fast and too close, the king’s guards moving to stand between them. Thranduil called them off in an irritated voice, turning his attention toward the dwarven king.

“Will he live?” Thorin asked, hope in his voice.

“He will,” Thranduil said, and immediately the dwarf’s features relaxed, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It bothered Thranduil more than he’d care to admit.

“Master Baggins will likely be blinded forever in the afflicted eye, and will have a difficulty in moving for quite some time,” Thranduil added. “It is the burden that comes with the injury.”

“But he will live,” Thorin repeated, smiling.

“He will live, but will forever be carrying the internal scars of what your foolish decisions have cost him,” Thranduil continued in a steady voice, though anger was beginning to burn brightly in his chest.

Thorin’s face fell then, and Thranduil was filled with satisfaction.

“I must rest now,” the elven king said, standing tall. “We will discuss the cost of this endeavor once I have rested adequately.”

“Of course,” Thorin muttered bitterly as Thranduil passed him.

“We prepared a room for you, your highness,” said one of the dwarves, whom Thranduil recognized as one of the royal princes, Fili.

“Take me to it,” answered Thranduil, his guard moving in on either side of him. The dwarven prince bit his tongue to keep himself from replying rudely, instead simply nodding and turning to lead Thranduil down the hall.

Thranduil had lost his sense of time in the thrice-damned mountain the dwarves of Erebor called home. He knew not whether it was day or night as he lay himself down on a bed far too small for his body, but in the moment, he realized that he didn’t care. He had truly overused his power, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret his actions. He told one of his guardsmen to go inform his son of his whereabouts, watching the elf hurry from the room animatedly. Thranduil closed his eyes, imagining himself in the gardens just beyond his balcony in the palace, his mind relaxing to an elf’s semblance of sleep.

* * *

 

Thranduil roused himself from his peaceful reverie, his body and mind feeling rejuvenated as he stirred, sitting up in the tiny bed he had been given for the night. He stood, stretching for a moment, looking almost catlike in his deft movements, before adjusting his clothes and hair and leaving the room.

He and his guardsmen traversed the dark green halls, back towards the makeshift infirmary. He there was told that Thorin awaited him in the throne room, and was escorted there by a dwarf with a full white beard.

As he had hours before, the dwarven king looked exhausted, weariness clear in the dark bruise-like bags beneath his eyes. Thranduil approached Thorin upon the broken throne of his forefathers.

“Have you decided on a fitting payment for the healing of Master Baggins?” Thorin asked him, voice drawn and deep with sleepiness.

“You know what I desire,” Thranduil replied, holding his head high as he stared Thorin down. “The gems of pure starlight, which your grandfather stole from me.”

Thorin’s jaw worked with frustration at the words, but he knew not to argue. “A chest will be prepared.”

Thranduil took another step toward the dwarf, standing just shy of the first step of the throne. Thorin shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Thranduil’s glare.

“You will release the hobbit into my care as well,” Thranduil declared, his face cautiously blank as he watch Thorin’s face twist in anger.

“I will not-!”

“Do you know what _nightmares_ the poor creature will have of this wretched mountain?” Thranduil hissed, stepping even closer. “Each time he would step foot into these halls, he will only think of the dragon _you_ allowed to nearly kill him!”

Thorin froze then, thinking over Thranduil’s words.

“He will see you and this mountain as things to fear. He may never again see gold and not flinch at what happened to him upon it. And, by the Valar, should he ever see a _dragon_ again, he would surely die straightaway of fright!”

Thorin knew Thranduil’s argument made perfect sense. He knew it, yet he did not want to agree. He could not grasp the idea that _his_ Bilbo would now be frightened of him and his home.

Thorin opened his mouth to speak, but Thranduil cut him off before he could utter a single word.

“If you truly love that hobbit as much as you say you do, you will allow me to take him away from Erebor,” Thranduil finished. “Think of _him_ instead of _yourself,_ o _King under the Mountain.”_

“Do not doubt the love I have for him!” Thorin growled, standing. Upon the throne, he was almost eye-to-eye with the elf.

“How can I not, when you sacrificed him to a _dragon_ for your own selfish desires?” Thranduil retorted.

And that was all it took for Thorin’s anger to cease. It was guilt once more that dominated the dwarf’s features. He slumped back down onto the cold stone throne, head in his hands.

“Take him and the gems with you,” Thorin said after a long while. “Be gone from my sight.”

Thranduil had already turned on his heel before Thorin finished his sentence, commanding his guardsmen to prepare a litter for the transportation of the chest and of the hobbit.

The first step towards healing had been taken, without the injured Bilbo’s knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was that!
> 
> Note: I honestly know absolutely nothing about Sindarin, so I copied Thranduil's incantation from the Hobbit script (it's what Tauriel chants when healing Kili!) It translates to: "May the blessing that was given to me be sent from me to him; may he be released from death." I thought it was fitting.  
> If anyone actually knows Sindarin or Quenya or Khuzdul and is willing to help me in the future, I would be completely in your debt!!  
> Note 2: According to Tolkien canon, elves don't sleep. Rather, they sort of meditate on beautiful thoughts.  
> Note 3: I sort of like the idea that Thranduil can sense Bilbo's dreams throughout the healing process (plus, it ties back to the previous chapter!) I've made it similar to how the Eldar can communicate with thought, but in this case, Bilbo would be unknowingly sharing information. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you next time! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome back!
> 
> It's been a while. I've been super busy, what with moving out of my parent's house and into an actual apartment. August has been an absolutely crazy month for me! But hey, I managed to update this story the day before my 2nd year of college started! <3
> 
> I keep stalling on adding the Battle of the Five Armies and Bilbo's actual arrival to Mirkwood, but that should be in the next chapter. I hope school won't delay me too much, but I'm generally slow at writing, and now there's going to be the added activities of class and whatnot. So please, bear with me!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! :)

The preparations for Bilbo’s departure from the mountain were made quickly, Thranduil feeling particularly keen to escape the suffocating halls of green which the dwarves of Erebor called home. The dwarves had not taken well to the idea of seeing Bilbo off, but knew that it was for the best that the hobbit was taken far away from the den of nightmares that was the Lonely Mountain.

Looking defeated and old beyond his years, Thorin Oakenshield stood at the gates with Thranduil, looking down upon his lover’s peaceful, sleeping face. It hurt him beyond words to let go of Bilbo, unable to apologize for his actions, to beg for forgiveness from the hobbit who had suffered through inexplicable and innumerable pains for Thorin.

“It is for the best,” Thranduil said calmly, breaking the cold silence between them.

“There is no need to remind me of that,” Thorin replied with a sigh. He very gently reached out to brush a stray curl away from Bilbo’s forehead, a tender expression growing on the dwarf’s face.

“When he is healed, we will discuss correspondence.” Thranduil looked skeptical at his own words, but knew that they would ease the mind of the dwarven king. “However, that is Master Baggins’ choice, and not yours nor mine to decide.”

Thorin felt hope blossom in his chest as he mulled over Thranduil’s words. He hoped vigorously that, one day, Bilbo would forgive him enough to talk to him again. Then again, Thorin thought to himself, he probably would not forgive himself, had he had been put in Bilbo’s situation. Nonetheless, Thorin tried to hold onto that fleeting tendril of hope he had left.

In a slow movement, Thorin shed his heavy, fur-lined coat, laying it over Bilbo as if a blanket. In another time and another circumstance, the sight of it would be humorous; the coat looked large enough to swallow the hobbit completely.

“I am sorry, my burglar,” Thorin murmured as his hands fidgeted to fix Bilbo’s hair, to smooth the coat over the small, warm chest, to tuck in the edges, so none of the mountain’s crisp morning air could bite at the tender, red skin. “May you be well soon.”

 Retreating from Bilbo’s side, Thorin stood up straight, squaring his broad shoulders.

“Take care of him,” Thorin urged, meeting Thranduil’s eyes. “I will not hesitate to wage a war upon you if a single hair on his head is harmed.”

The words made a wisp of a smile appear on Thranduil’s lips, before disappearing completely, replaced by a serious expression.

“I will not harm him,” answered Thranduil. “You have my word, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin could barely stand to watch the elven guardsmen delicately lift Bilbo, wrapped up in the heavy mass of Thorin’s coat, from his cot and into an elaborate carriage of wood; vines wrought of a pale oak, oiled and glistening in the meek sunlight of the early morning, adorned the carriage’s sides in snakelike tendrils, splitting into smaller stems and carefully carved flowers. Inside, a fortress of soft pillows and thick woolen blankets awaited Bilbo, where he was settled and tucked in with the softest of movements. Though almost picturesque in a strange, fairy tale-esque manner, Thorin did not wish to think that this sight could be the very last time he laid eyes on his hobbit, that Bilbo was leaving the reach of Thorin’s protection completely.

Thranduil, now mounted, sitting tall upon his elk steed, looked back toward the mountain, distaste and the barest hint of stress in his expression. He wished to be back in his forest as soon as possible, but knew that negotiations with the men of Lake-town would be needed urgently.

“Take the hobbit back to the palace, _carefully_. He must not be jostled much, lest his injuries be disturbed,” Thranduil commanded. His guardsmen moved at once in a single practiced motion, the guards mounting their horses and surrounding the carriage.

The massive elk took a step toward the carriage with Thranduil’s insistence, and he spoke once more. “Make sure our guest is in the most comfortable of lodgings, and keep him warm at all times. May he wake up, do whatever he desires.”

The guardsmen all made an affirmative noise, armor of gold dazzling in the pale sun.

The two kings once more turned to each other. Thorin made a motion with his arm, Balin walking forward with a wood and iron plated chest in his arms. Thranduil simply nodded, and one of his men took the chest from the dwarf’s grasp.

Thranduil and Thorin said nothing to each other, simply watching one another for a long moment. Thorin was the first to look away, gritting his teeth and fisting his palms tightly, nails biting into flesh, to keep himself from doing anything regrettable. Thranduil then turned, motioning his elk forward.

After a long silence and the placement of the gems within Bilbo’s carriage, Thranduil and his guardsmen left the Lonely Mountain, leaving a broken Thorin behind at the ruins of the gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you enjoyed this chapter! Stay tuned for the next installments! :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Vanya here, with another bit of this sad tale!
> 
> I've been relatively busy with school, but this chapter seemed to come relatively easily. Unfortunately, I keep pushing the introduction of the main plot and events further and further back, because I keep realizing that I can't just leave all these unanswered questions laying about! So I'm going to try my best to complete the Battle of the Five Armies and the actual PLOT of the story soon. Sorry! It'll happen eventually, I promise!
> 
> This is another relatively long chapter. Rather jumpy, really. I wanted to make one large cohesive chapter rather than a bunch of small ones, so here's a whole bunch of ideas thrown together awkwardly!
> 
> As always, enjoy, and feel free to leave me a comment to let me know what you think! I'd very much appreciate it! 
> 
> See you all next time :D

The distant sound of horns and the rumbling of hooves on hard ground awoke him.

When Bilbo Baggins opened his eyes, all he saw was white, light blinding him from what seemed like all directions. His mind felt bogged down with confusion, a tinge of fear in his veins from the inevitable lack of understanding as to where he was. He could barely move, his body sore and heavy, as if held in place by some great weight upon his chest.

He could not recall what had occurred after he had entered that dark room, looking for a safe hideout from the monster whose name made a tremor of panic run down Bilbo’s spine. He remembered with biting clarity the nightmares that plagued him for what felt like eternity, which had dulled in one sense and brightened in another, evolving from horror to comfort the longer he slept.

He had no idea where this bright place could be. Was he dead, perhaps? Had the beast succeeded in killing him? From the pain that reverberated through his skull in dimming pangs, he could assume that the easiest answer was that he _was_ dead.

Time slid by wretchedly slowly, grinding down Bilbo’s patience. He could barely move, and he hadn’t the faintest idea why. He tried to twist out of the vicelike grip that held him in place, only to feel a biting sting across his side, from hip to scalp, when he squirmed.

After what felt like eons, a sudden movement jostled Bilbo. Not a moment later, he heard a sharp creak and even more light flooded into the space. He groaned softly, the light burning his eyes that had become so accustomed to darkness.

He heard some soft murmurs, voices lilting and wafting gently in a tongue which Bilbo could not understand, and then he felt himself lifted. Was he being carried somewhere? It didn’t feel like it, as there was no movement indicating thus, yet he could still hear the soft tap of boots against stone. The delicate footsteps continued on, lulling Bilbo into a state of half-sleep, before suddenly ceasing.

There were hands touching him, moving him. Bilbo could hardly see, for the light was blinding and his vision was fuzzy, rendering him unable to make out the shapes moving around him. His back touched a soft surface, and the movement about him stopped. He heard a door shut, and the rustle of robes as someone sat.

“Master Baggins, I am Arias. I will be attending to you while the King is away,” came a gentle voice from his left. Bilbo tilted his head towards the direction, blinking, trying to melt away the fogginess in his vision. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt swollen, his throat parched, and no words came from his lips.

His head was very delicately lifted from its soft place. He vaguely heard the mention of “water,” and very eagerly drank as the cool substance flowed into his mouth, water dribbling down his chin as he drank with gusto. The water and the arm holding him in place were quickly moved away, and Bilbo longed for the return.

Sated and ever-tired, Bilbo listened to the soft words of Arias, who spoke to him in eloquent stanzas in a foreign tongue, as if reading poetry. He listened and listened, growing sleepy and relaxed as she continued to speak.

 

* * *

 

 

Bard the Bowman stood before the Lonely Mountain, his appearance ragged and worn, looking wholeheartedly weary. With the assistance of a few elves that had come to the aid of his people, Bard found himself now standing in what once was the great entrance into Erebor, hoping for reparations for the consequences of the dragon attack.

The first to see Bard was the archer Kili, standing guard at the ramparts. He stood poised bow and arrow ready, looking confused and tense.

“Why have you come to the mountain, Bowman?” the dwarf called down. “And with elves?”

“I have come to discuss reparations with the King,” Bard answered. “Might you allow me to see him?”

“My uncle is not fit to meet with you as of yet,” said Kili, easing the tension from his drawn bow, yet not taking his focus off of the human and his elven guards.

“And when shall he be?” Bard replied, agitation biting in his tone.

“For now, you can discuss the terms with me,” came another voice from above. Bard craned his head to see an older dwarf approach. He dropped a worn-looking ladder of rope down the gate, which Bard looked at disdainfully. “We can discourse within the mountain.”

Bard looked back at his elven escorts, who looked equally as confused by the situation. Bard sighed, and turned back towards the mountain, beginning the shaky ascent.

Upon reaching the top of the gates, Bard could not help the sound of shock that left his lips. He had only heard tales of what lay within the mountain, and now looking down upon halls of solid emerald stone, those seemingly fictitious lies that he had been told were revealed to be completely true. He wondered idly of the once-great treasury, if the gold cursed by the dragon Smaug was as beautiful and maddening as he had always told it had been. Yet, at the moment, the idea of such gold being cursed meant little to him. He needed the gold to ensure his people’s survival.

The older dwarf who had allowed him into the mountain Bard could vaguely recall from their meeting in Lake-town. The long-bearded dwarf introduced himself as Balin, sparing no time in leading Bard further into the green maze.

Balin led Bard to a library, full of dust and cramped with books and parchments covering all available surfaces. The high ceilings bore elaborate designs made out of what seemed to be embedded gold and studded stones that must have been the size of a human head; rectangular windows cut from the stone ceiling allowed crisp light from the sky above to enter the massive library, filling the room with a glowing aura that lit up the worn leather-bound books and the heavy furniture in a rich tone of brown.

Balin hurriedly cleared a chair for Bard, who sat upon the dwarf’s insistence. Bard noticed the weary look in the dwarf’s face, the sadness in those ancient eyes.

“I’m afraid all negotiations between the men of Lake-town and Erebor must be through me for the time being,” said Balin.

“What happened to your King, Oakenshield?” Bard asked.

“He is not in the right mind,” answered Balin. This made Bard stiffen.

“The dragon sickness?” Bard felt a ball of dread teeming in his gut at the thought. He had heard of the illness of the mind, which could so very easily infect the fickle hearts of those who desire gold. It was no difficult feat imagining Thorin Oakenshield gone mad among the piles of treasure that was all inevitably his.

“Thank Mahal it is not such,” Balin said, no relief in his tone.

“Then--?”

“Do you recall Master Baggins?” interrupted Balin. Bard was mildly taken aback by the ferocity in Balin’s voice.

“I do,” answered Bard. “Has something happened to him?”

“He was the first victim of Smaug’s anger,” Balin replied.

Bard’s heart sank. Of all of the Company, the hobbit Bilbo had by far been the kindest and most considerate. That the poor creature had felt the wrath of a dragon’s fire seemed unfathomable.

“Is he--?” Bard hoped he would not have to say the word that came to mind.

“No, not dead. King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm agreed to heal his wounds,” Balin said before Bard could finish his sentence. “He should be far on his way to Mirkwood by now.”

The thought of the dwarves allying with the elves, who had historically had poor relations, simply to save the life of one being made Bard realize suddenly of what great importance the hobbit must have been to this group of dwarves.

Changing the subject quickly, Balin said, “You are here to discuss reparations for the loss of Lake-town. What are your terms?”

Bard took a moment to ponder the question. “King Thorin promised my people enough gold to rebuild the town ten times over, if I recall correctly.”

Balin took a deep breath before responding. “We can give you enough to rebuild, and send money in increments thenceforth in order to stimulate your economy. Does this sound fair?”

“It does,” answered Bard, knowing better than to argue thusly. He was loath to lose the money he was being promised out of greed for more.

“Excellent. We will prepare the chests immediately, once I inform Thorin of the developments.”

The negotiations were quick, and almost as quickly as they occurred, Bard found himself once again shadowing the white-bearded dwarf down a hallway. Before them, a grand entranceway appeared, a thin walkway leading up to a massive throne wrought of stone and adorned with carvings in Khuzdul, a barren crest above the head of the throne missing what must have been some sort of jewel that would have sat in the center. There, Balin and Bard found the King under the Mountain, sitting upon the throne with his head in his hands. Upon hearing the approaching footsteps, Thorin Oakenshield looked up, and Bard was shocked by the exhaustion and grief that riddled the dwarf’s face. Balin motioned for Bard to stay back, to wait at the far edge of the walkway as Balin went to discuss terms with the king.

“Thorin, Bard is here—” Balin began, only to be interrupted by Thorin.

“I see that. Now get him out,” Thorin answered curtly, his tone sour.

“Thorin, please—”

“I said _get him out!”_ Thorin roared, standing from his place on the throne. Standing upon the steps, Thorin appeared massive. Even from a distance, Bard had a most unusual feeling of being insignificantly _small_ before the King under the Mountain.

Thorin met his eyes as he spoke then. “I care not what you take from me, Bowman. Take all the gold your heart desires, for I could not care less for it. I just want you _out_ of this gods-forsaken mountain. Can you not see that this place is cursed?” Thorin shouted, the stone beneath Bard’s feet vibrating with the power of the dwarf’s voice, which echoed and distorted across the wide halls, whispers of angry echoes coming from all directions.

Balin cleared his throat, speaking in a soft murmur that Bard could not distinguish. Thorin scoffed and sat back down on his throne, looking as miserable as ever.

“Leave me, both of you,” he said, patience thin in his low, quiet voice, his head sinking back into his hands.

In a rush, Balin was once more at Bard’s side, pulling him far away from Thorin’s throne room.

As all the interactions that day had occurred, Bard found himself outside of the mountain, his and his elven companion’s mounts loaded down with gold. He had been so sure that the whole affair would have ended poorly, and yet, here he was, leaving with all he had come to get.

“I wish you luck, Master Bard,” said Balin.

“Likewise, Master Balin,” Bard replied, turning his horse around to head back to the ruins of Dale.

The mountain was cursed, as Oakenshield had said. Bard could only hope that the gold he now carried was free of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin sat upon his throne and looked out upon his kingdom. A kingdom of thirteen, he thought to himself. Such a small dominion was hardly a kingdom at all.

He had taken to self-isolation, keeping himself away from the other dwarves as much as possible. A true king showed no weakness. A true king would keep going through thick and thin, no matter what circumstances befell him. And yet Thorin, in this time, simply could _not._

He was mourning. Bilbo, though, was not dead; Thorin mourned for their broken bond, that he was sure now would be irreparable. He mourned for the fact that he himself could not care for Bilbo. He had no skill in healing, wounds or minds alike. He mourned that he had to give Bilbo away to the _one_ being in all of Middle Earth that he hated the most: Thranduil, king of the Woodland Realm.

But Thorin knew in his heart that he should be thankful to the elven king, for having so quickly taken upon the task of being Bilbo’s healer and caretaker. It was a move that none had expected, for Thranduil was historically cautious when it came to sending aid.

With a sigh, Thorin ground his knuckles against his eyes, odd shapes and bright colors sparking beneath closed eyelids. He was so very, very tired, but sleep had eluded him. His mind was haunted by the image of Bilbo’s burned and broken body. It was an image that was certain to remain burned into his mind for the rest of his days.

In the distance, Thorin could just barely hear the sounds of activity, of his Company rustling about, cleaning, talking, _living._ But Thorin could not bear the thought of joining them.

In the week since the dwarves had entered the mountain, everything had changed. One fact, though remained pointedly clear:

The Lonely Mountain had never been more of a fitting name for the home of King Thorin Oakenshield.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears!
> 
> My, it has been a LONG time. For that, I apologize. I've been so busy with school this year, that I've barely had any time to write! But, finally, I've managed to finish a chapter decent enough to post!
> 
> Please enjoy!

The ruins of Lake-town were still and silent upon the arrival of Thranduil and his guards. Long enough had passed since the dragon’s attack that the ruins had ceased smoldering, leaving behind the charred husks of buildings and an array of household items floating along in the frigid water. It was clear to Thranduil that there was no point in attempting to rebuild the city.

Throngs of survivors, pale and weak from exhaustion and hunger, moved about the edges of the lake, trying to recover what little they could. Others moved along towards the ruins of Dale, where the other survivors had begun to set up a makeshift settlement, with Bard as their leader.

From his high seat upon his elk, Thranduil looked out upon the dark-watered lake, and could clearly make out the spiny back of the dragon Smaug, rising up like a mountain ridge from the water, jewels encrusted between red scales glittering in the sun. His huge, apparently delicate wings had caught in the jagged remains of what were once wooden houses, the flesh torn through as if it had been an easy feat; the wing, particularly the left wing, was contorted in a fashion so awkward it must have somehow broken, a twisted mess of veiny copper skin and jutting sinew and glistening bones. It disgusted Thranduil to think of the rest of the vile corpse, rotting away beneath the waves, poisoning the water around it. There would, without a doubt, have to be an action to dispose of the corpse in some way.

The massive body of the dragon, rocking in the gentle waves, brought Thranduil back memories of battling the fierce creatures thousands of years previous. His face stung for a long moment as he looked out upon the desolate landscape. Although his torn and scarred face was hidden behind the thin mask of elven magic he constantly wore, being so near the dragon’s body recalled feelings within him of helplessness, of pain beyond comprehension.

The moment of uneasy calm that spread itself before him was interrupted by the distant rumble of footsteps, a heartbeat thudding through the earth at perfectly timed intervals. He had no need to turn toward the sound, knowing that it was inevitably his army approaching, with carts laden with supplies and tools for the now homeless people of Lake-town.

He paused for a moment to think of the hobbit that was now under his realm of control, of a certain Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, who would for a time be a citizen of Mirkwood instead. Thranduil had no need to feel overly concerned, for he had the utmost confidence in his healers to care for the recovering hobbit in his stead. Yet there was still a thread of overbearing concern lingering there amidst other worries.

The rest of the day drew on and on, amidst grandiose plans of reconstruction and strong alliances. Though the circumstances were grim in the current moment, the future seemed to hold a bright potential. With the gold allotted to the men of Lake-town by the King under the Mountain, preparations for a new city were put in place, with more mind to fire-resistance and overall durability. The new home of the men of the Lake would be known as Esgaroth, and seemed destined to be as grand, if not grander, than what Dale once was.

As the night came to a close and Thranduil bid his farewell from the weary King on the Lake, a dull, unsettling feeling of premonition rose from deep within Thranduil’s chest. The wind tasted sickly on his tongue, the air thicker than normal as it passed through his lungs. The chill in the air bit at his skin harder than it should have, leaving the Elven King with an unpleasant and sinister feeling of foreboding that only seemed to grow.

He found himself looking out in the direction of the distant forest, hoping that the familiar dread he felt was false.

* * *

 

The letter, ink still shining and wet, felt heavy in Thorin’s hands. Again, this time being the thrice, he found himself reading the words. It was a call to aid, as suggested by Balin. A call to his brethren. A triumphant farce asking for his cousin Dain to come to Erebor, to send assistance in the restoration of the great Dwarven kingdom.

Thorin reread it again and again, the guilt of his lie growing larger and larger until he wanted to destroy the mess of mangled truths in his hands until no shred of it remained. He understood why it was necessary to repopulate the mountain, why they must continue on as if nothing had been lost in the claiming of Erebor.

As Balin took the now-worn letter from his hands, Thorin felt impossibly fragile. He knew, and dreaded, that, soon enough, the dwarves of the Iron Hills would know that although Thorin now resided within the mountain kingdom, he was no king. Though the letter exalted in the discovery, in truth, none of the dwarves had seen the Arkenstone amidst the mountains of gold.

Thorin knew that the lie, that saying that he was now in possession of the King’s Jewel, would be the only way to get support in their time of greatest weakness. Yet he could only think of the inevitable future, where he would be deposed of whatever wretched power he had somehow acquired in the sickening acquisition of the mountain.

He left the throne room then, back to his pointless wanderings through the place that he had dreamed of returning to for so long. The once-familiar halls were unfamiliar in their bleakness, the deafening silence of the mountain making his head pound. Thorin paid it no mind, and continued his walk.

He took a detour which he had not dared to take since the day they had found Bilbo in the abandoned armory. He walked amongst the gold, the hills of precious metal and stone, and felt only unrest. He had worried that upon sight of the gold, he would change, as his grandfather had; yet now the gold was so particularly unappealing, cursed and evil, that Thorin wanted absolutely no part of it.

He found, deep within the recesses of the mountain, what looked to be a waterfall of gold. It was solid now to the touch, cold and lifeless. Thorin could almost see it in his mind’s eye, how Bilbo must have run, tripping through the slippery piles of gold on aching feet, and how the monster Smaug drew close behind, spewing flames that followed in his footsteps. He could almost feel Bilbo’s panic, the thundering of a heart he had come to know so well, beneath a chest that gasped and sobbed and trembled with fear. Thorin found himself walking the steps that Bilbo must have taken, across the melted gold, toward the dark armory where all of this had begun.

He had not noticed, in his initial run of panic to find Bilbo, that dried blood decorated the door frame, a small handprint against the green stone, smudged and misshapen. Thorin took a deep breath before entering the armory, his small torch failing to light the vast hall.

Cobwebs riddled the spaces between weapons and racks of armor, dust sitting in a heavy layer atop everything in the room. Looking down, Thorin could make out the most recent footsteps, made by large and dragging feet, leading off into the darkness. It made Thorin’s breath catch in his throat, a mix of grief and fear. He brought himself to follow the trail, though his boots felt heavier than they had ever felt before. Each step was more and more tentative, a dull sense of panic rising up his throat. He was frightened. Though he knew Bilbo was no longer there, it felt as if something still remained in the armory.

An eerie shadow-like stain remained on the wall where Bilbo had hidden, from the press of his ashen skin to the stone. Thorin’s stomach turned at the thought of it. On the ground, there was a pile of cloth, blackened and frayed. He kneeled down, reaching to touch the remains of Bilbo’s clothes.

From the ash fell a small green object, which tapped against the floor with a muffled crack. Thorin picked it up, turning it in his hands, realizing that the object was an acorn, of all things. He couldn’t resist the smile that tugged upon his lips, thinking back on their time at Beorn’s home, on how eagerly Bilbo had told him how he would plant the acorn in his garden at Bag End. The small seed had certainly made it a long way, Thorin thought fondly, as he pocketed it. He promised to himself that he would keep it safe for Bilbo as he continued to search through the pile.

Not much of what must have once been Bilbo’s coat remained in that corner. What little remained fell apart in his hands like frail paper, leaving Thorin’s hands ashen and gray. He sunk his hand further into the cloth and felt a large bump at the very bottom of it all.

Curiosity indeed got the best of Thorin in that moment, and from the cloth he pulled something that nearly blinded him with the light that shown from its core.

It made Thorin fall back in shock, dropping the bright stone as if it had burned him. The torch he held fell from his hands, the fire sputtering out. He scooted away from the light with panic, eyes wide. He could barely breathe, the dusty air suffocating. The darkness that now surrounded him almost entirely felt too close, its grasping hands tugging at his body and reminding him of how very alone he was in the abandoned armory.

Tears had passed beyond the point of simply threat and had begun making trails down Thorin’s cheeks as his eyes were drawn to the faint light that came from Bilbo’s ashy corner. His chest burned with the pain of the realization.

Their Burglar truly _had_ succeeded, in the end.

* * *

 

The silence on the Lake was interrupted very suddenly by the blare of a war horn. Thranduil looked away from the forest to see one of his own men off in the distance riding toward the camp at Dale. The foreboding Thranduil had felt that night had been answered, then.

He knew little of the threat yet, but one thing was undoubtedly clear:

With the fall of Smaug, the true battle for Erebor had begun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, finally, the Battle of the Five Armies is upon us! It'll definitely happen in the next chapter or so (even though I've probably said this at the end of the last like 3 chapters, I'm actually serious this time!) 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! I really appreciate any and all feedback on this fic.
> 
> See you next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness! It certainly has been a while. And for that, I want to apologize. It's been a very interesting 10 months since my last update. So much has happened, that I honestly forgot about this story. I studied abroad, moved houses, and started my third year of college. It's been absolutely crazy for me, in the best way.  
> Now that I'm reacquainted again with my on writing, I hope to be able to add an update at least monthly. At least, that's the goal.  
> Finally, I'd like to thank you all for the support, and I hope you'll enjoy this update!

When Bilbo Baggins awoke again, he found his vision much clearer than the time before, though not as crisp as his vision normally would have been. A dark haze seemed to fill up the space to the right of his nose, though he felt no pain there. He paid it no mind for the moment, as he glanced around at his surroundings as best as he could without moving his head, eyes straining in their sockets to see where he was.

The room he was in was sparsely decorated and large, with high, arching ceilings made of what appeared to be vines, entangled together into delicate, intricate braids of brown that stood out against the neutral walls. To his left, Bilbo could see a table laden with a meticulously shined silver pitcher, alongside a pile of what looked like towels and bandages. Turning his head towards the right, he saw an open door. He strained his neck further, craning it to see better, the motion causing an idle sting along his skin. He could just barely see out into a hallway, whose green-tinted light spilled into the room he was in.

He turned his head back to look up at the ceiling as he tested out each of his limbs to make sure of their presence and functionality. First, his feet, turning his ankles in circles and wriggling his toes experimentally until he was satisfied. His knees seemed to bend just fine, as well. He moved his left arm without trouble, though his right arm seemed stiff, as if the skin was pulled too taut across his muscles, and only hurt a tad when he moved it. He noted to himself that he must be more careful when moving, if the odd tingling pain was any indication.

With an experimental heave, Bilbo tried sitting himself up, finding that it stung to do so, though not awfully so. It took some maneuvering on his part, but eventually, Bilbo gingerly sat himself upright, leaning against the oversized pillow that he’d fixed behind himself. It certainly helped with his observation to be sitting, he decided, as he pulled the sheets back just enough to see what was causing the odd strain each time he moved his right side.

Upon first inspection, his body appeared to be wholly intact, which was overwhelmingly suspicious to the Hobbit, who very clearly remembered every awful moment of his incineration by the dragon. It made him shudder to think of it, and the shiny pink flesh that now dominated his right side made him more confused than anything else. Smoothing a hand across his side made him wonder how in Yavanna’s name he had ended up so well healed.

How long had he been asleep for? Unless he had slept for a year or more, he thought, he should not have healed as much as he had. If his memory of the Mountain was true, then he should be little more than a Hobbit-shaped crisp, yet he seemed to be on the later end of the healing process.

His introspection was very quickly disturbed by a sudden yelling from somewhere down the hall. At first it was indistinct to him, perhaps in Elvish; eventually, he could hear the words, although warped. He listened in closely, but could only catch snippets of conversation.

“...Erebor! The mountain will soon be under...!”

“We must... the Orcs!” shouted another.

The Orcs had returned? Bilbo suddenly felt panic welling within him. How many? If the elves were so panicked, could that mean that there was a battalion of troops? More? An _army?_ And the Company was surely still there, in their halls, safe within the mountain, yet if Bilbo understood correctly, there would soon be an army at their gates. He thought of his friends, the Company, to those who he traveled so far with, and was filled with worry. They were only thirteen, and perhaps Gandalf, if he had arrived. Thirteen Dwarves alone would stand no chance against an army of Orcs. Even the Company, who had been able to hold their own so far throughout their journey, would be crushed in moments. Bilbo wondered idly if all thirteen Dwarves had survived the dragon’s fire, and if the dragon itself had survived. He had no way to know if he had been the only one who had been injured by Smaug, or if he was only one of many. It worried him to think that any one of the dwarves could be hurt, or worse, dead, but then the shadow of his nightmares came back to his mind, drawing an icy shudder down his spine.

Perhaps the dwarves were unharmed because they had used Bilbo as a sacrifice. Was that not what Smaug had said? Although, a dragon, of all creatures, was certainly not trustworthy. Especially one who was the sworn enemy of the group that Bilbo had sworn his allegiance to, though that contract and those easy times felt like they had occurred years ago.

But Smaug’s words _had_ gotten to Bilbo, which was the beast’s obvious intention. Bilbo, so far away from Erebor, had no way of knowing who had been telling the truth anymore. Had Smaug’s words truly have been true, or had Thorin’s apparent concern prior to Bilbo’s first and only entrance into Erebor actually been true?

The words echoed in Bilbo’s mind as he stared out towards the open door with his left eye, watching guards hurry past occasionally. _You were only ever a means to an end,_ the dragon had told him. A simple tool, an easy being to sacrifice in order for Thorin to lead his Dwarves into their home. Into victory. Into a life without the need of silly Halflings like Bilbo. Oh, why did those words have to be so utterly convincing? It truly made Bilbo question everything that had occurred between him and Thorin up until now. How true was any of it? Were _any_ of those feelings real? Had their love meant nothing? The more Bilbo thought of it, the more frustrated he became.

Focusing back on the present, Bilbo could tell that the Elves outside the door looked panicked as they ran. It seemed that the Elves would soon enter into the fray, as unlikely as it seemed. From what he could remember, Thorin was loath to trust Thranduil, whom he had lost all confidence in the day that the dragon had initially stolen the mountain. And yet, if this place where Bilbo found himself truly _was_ Mirkwood, which he assumed was the most likely case, it seemed that these Elves, _Thranduil’s_ elves, were planning on fighting the Orcs, whether it be for the protection of their own lands, or in aid to the Dwarves of Erebor. But try as he may have, there was no way for Bilbo to get back to Erebor in time, if he truly was in Greenwood.  And so the Company’s Burglar remained, with a mind full to the brim with questions and doubts, in a foreign bed with impossibly healed wounds what seemed like a world away, hoping for the safety of his dear friends. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies! It's been a bit. But I'm back! School's been absolutely awful recently, and I doubt it will get any better in the coming month, but a girl can dream, right? Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. If you did, please let me know! I love to hear what you guys have to say. It makes my day, honestly. 
> 
> See you next time! <3

In all honesty, Thranduil had not expected to return to the Lonely Mountain for years, much less _days_ after the unfortunate events which had brought him to that accursed kingdom in the first place. And yet, with a gnawing sense of dread in his gut, Thranduil once again stood before the emerald throne of the King under the Mountain.

Beneath the glinting light of the Arkenstone, which had been restored to its rightful place upon the crest of the throne, Thorin looked small, tired. Out of place. Even the crown upon his head seemed too heavy for the King under the Mountain to bear. It was almost humbling to Thranduil that the proud dwarven king had mellowed so much.

When Thranduil spoke, he was brutally direct. “It is time for you to cease your solitude, Thorin Oakenshield. An army of orcs approaches, and in this time, we must rally and stand strong against this common enemy.”

Thorin stared at the pale king blankly, as if the words Thranduil had spoken had not been understood, his eyes focused not on Thranduil’s eyes, but somewhere lower, his jaw perhaps; it was oddly subordinate in a way that irked Thranduil. Thranduil simply grimaced at the dwarf, irritated by his lack of emotion at the news.

“I refuse to let you mourn yourself to death. You and your pride nearly killed the whole of Lake Town for this bloody mountain, and now you just want to die?” The elf king scoffed. “How shameful would it be for the noble king of Erebor to have utterly destroyed hundreds of lives only to give it all up to waste away upon his throne.”

Thorin continued to stare, his eyes devoid of emotion.

The frustration Thranduil had been restraining refused to be restrained any longer. In one, two, three steps, Thranduil had reached the throne, and gripped Thorin’s front, the mail pulled taut as Thranduil brought the dwarf to eye level.

“Hear this, Oakenshield. I will not stand here and let you allow more death to be brought about by your stupidity. You have already allowed the Men to die for this mountain, and I _refuse_ to let my kind do the same. You _will_ fight. You _will_ protect this accursed mountain. You _will_ survive, if not for yourself, but for your people. For your hobbit.” Thranduil leaned in closer. “ _Do I make myself clear_?”

A glimmer of life sparked in the dull blue of Thorin’s eyes at the words. He looked up into the face of Thranduil, whose expression was plain but whose eyes burned ferociously, and a hint of a smile spread across Thorin’s lips.

“As crystal,” replied the Dwarf King.

It appeared that somehow, after everything that had pushed them apart, the two opposing kings were to be allies in this great war. Thranduil released Thorin, his face grim.

“Ready your men,” he said. “The time has come.”

“There are but thirteen dwarves in this mountain,” Thorin answered without a moment’s hesitation, pulling his clothes back into alignment. “While I have requested the aid of my cousin Dain of the Iron Hills, I cannot say if they will manage to make it here before the Orcs do.”

Thranduil felt a sort of relief at the confession that more dwarves were coming. He hadn’t a clue how large the army of Orcs could possibly be, and he felt little desire to sacrifice them all for the sake of another king.

“My scouts have informed me that we have little over two days before the Orc army is upon us. For the sake of us all, we must prevent them from encroaching on any of our lands.”

There was barely any time to prepare, then, thought Thorin. Could they manage to draw together any semblance of a cohesive force in just two days? It seemed doubtful, in his opinion, yet Thranduil appeared oddly positive.

“We must move the weak into the mountain for protection. The children, the old, the women, the injured. Though I suppose they ought to be allowed to fight, if they so choose,” said Thranduil. Thorin frowned.

“The mountain is in no state to be housing so many people,” he replied.

“And you think Dale is any better?” quipped Thranduil. “Erebor has natural fortification, and, unlike a human settlement, cannot truly be destroyed, as it is a mountain.” The statement felt bland on his tongue. It was too obvious an answer, and it felt almost pointless to say. Yet, Thorin Oakenshield appeared to need a reminder of how much safer Erebor was in the case of an external attack.

Thorin nodded slowly, after a time. “I shall ask my men which areas of Erebor appear most fit to house the citizens of Lake Town, at least until the battle has ended. But be aware of our lack of food. Of water. We may be well fortified here, but we would not last forever, if the Orcs were to blockade us inside.”

Thorin was right. Perhaps it would be noteworthy to send another food envoy from Mirkwood to Erebor.

“Send a raven to your cousin, and request that they hurry. I will prepare my forces while I can,” said Thranduil. “We have very little time.”

This prompted Thorin to begin the long walk away from the throne room. His hurried steps were matched by Thranduil’s long strides without any semblance of discomfort.

On the other side of the great doors barring the throne room from the hall, a group of ashen-faced Dwarves and Thranduil’s Elven guards stood. Their faces looked grim. Perhaps they had heard all of what had happened through the door.

It was Thorin who spoke first. “My noble Company, I know that I have asked more of you than I should have ever been able to. And yet, here I am, asking more once again.”

The dwarves seemed to stand up straighter, their faces grave. Thorin continued.

“King Thranduil has informed me that in a few days, we will be under attack by Orcs.” He allowed a moment for the Dwarves to resettle themselves, as many had shouted out in a mix of surprise and horror at the news. “As we are only thirteen, we will be allying with the Elves of Mirkwood and the Men of Lake Town.”

Thorin then turned to look at Balin. “Please send a raven to Dain. We need his forces here as soon as possible.” With a nod, Balin left, rushing down the dark hall toward the ramparts. Turning his eyes back to the Company, Thorin steeled himself for the inevitable response of his next words.

“Until the war for Erebor has ended, we will be opening our halls to the Men of Lake Town.” There was protest among the dwarves at the words, but it took no more than a chilly glare from both of the great kings to have them silenced once more.

It was Thranduil who spoke next. “Your kin owe it to the Men to give them refuge, after all you have taken from them. It is now your duty to find them a suitable place to stay while we rally our forces. Only then will you be allowed to join the fray.”

“Why should we listen to _you?”_ demanded Dwalin. “You’re no king of ours.”

“And yet,” began Thranduil, a hint of a smile on his face, though there was no humor in his expression. “I am the king that will save the Dwarves of Erebor from ruin. It would be in your best interest to do as I say, or I cannot guarantee the safety of your people.”

Another wave of protest rifled through the dwarves, who seemed about ready to kill the smug Elven king. But Thorin stopped them simply by raising his hand. Weapons clanked back into their scabbards, and a displeased grumble from the Dwarves could be heard.

“As wrong as it may feel, we _will_ be allying with Thranduil, and we _will_ be helping the Men of Lake Town. I have agreed with him on this matter, and unless you lot would like to betray me and our people, I would suggest you do as we say. Any complaints?”

For once, the Company was absolutely silent, their faces grimmer than ever before.

“Good. It seems the matter is settled, then,” said Thranduil, looking towards Thorin. “I will be preparing my forces. Expect the Men at your gates at dawn. We will meet again then.” Without another word, Thranduil swept off through the hall, his guards at his side.

Thorin turned his attention back toward the Company, noting how particularly uncomfortable they looked by the notion of working with Thranduil. After all, the Elven king _had_ kept them prisoner, and had refused them any help at that point. But things had changed. Unknowingly, Bilbo had changed _everything._

“Dwalin, I want you to find the most suitable area to house the Men. Take Nori and Bofur with you. Fili, Kili, Ori: gather the weapons and armor. Oin, Gloin, Dori: find any remaining medical supplies and beds that may be of use. Bifur, Bombur: continue preparing the kitchens,” commanded Thorin. Without even a peep of dissidence, the dwarves all scattered to do their duties. Thorin took his leave, then, heading up to the ramparts to meet with Balin.

Upon his arrival, Thorin and Balin made eye contact. Balin made a motion with his head, and Thorin knew then that the raven had already begun its journey to catch up with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. Thorin could only hope that Dain’s forces would arrive on time.

Thorin leaned against the ramparts, looking out toward the distant Mirkwood for a long moment. He worried idly about Bilbo, though he knew the Hobbit would be most safe in Mirkwood.

It hurt to think his name.

Balin seemed to understand the sudden look of pain upon Thorin’s face. He put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “He will be safe, Thorin.”

“It is not him that I should be concerned about in this moment, and yet I cannot resist my thoughts,” Thorin replied. Balin nodded.

“We will all survive to see our Hobbit again,” Balin stated. “If he survived a dragon, we can certainly survive a few Orcs.”

A humorless chuckle left Thorin’s lips. “ _Barely._ He would not have survived without Thranduil’s help.”

“And here we are, once again in the same position,” said Balin. “Who knew Bilbo Baggins of the Shire would be so pivotal in bringing together the Elves of Mirkwood and the Dwarves of Erebor.”

“That bloody wizard was right, in the end,” Thorin said with a sigh. “He knew from the start how important Bilbo would be. And yet I wish I had never agreed to let him come with us. If we had just gone without Bilbo, he would still be safe and whole in his comfortable Hobbit hole in the Shire.”

“Without Bilbo, we would not have made it this far. Those Trolls would have eaten us, or the Orcs would have, or even Beorn. If we had made it that far, then we likely would have been eaten by spiders, or would still be trapped in Thranduil’s dungeons. Time and time again, we were saved by the most unsuspecting of individuals,” said Balin.

Thorin knew Balin was right. If Thorin had listened to his gut and refused Gandalf’s plan to leave the hobbit behind, the Company likely would not have survived, much less have made it all the way to Erebor, and even if they had, they would not have even been able to enter through the door: Bilbo had done that, too.

“I only wish I could have done better by him. Bilbo will never love me again after all of the suffering that I have forced upon him,” Thorin said.

“Love works in mysterious ways, Thorin. Who would we be if we knew how it truly worked?” mused Balin.

“You’re right,” answered Thorin. He was still sure that after the war was over, Bilbo would refuse to ever see him again. But perhaps it was better that way. After everything, Thorin refused to hurt the Hobbit more than he already had. And if that required him to never see Bilbo Baggins of the Shire again, then that is what would have to be.

The two dwarves were silent for a long while, staring out over the Desolation. How things had changed.

Their calm reprieve only lasted a few moments before Thorin moved. Regardless of how Thorin felt at that moment, he steeled himself. And so Thorin found himself heading toward the armory, focused and prepared.

Thranduil had said it himself. Thorin had a reason to survive this war. If not for himself, he had to be there for his people. Who else could lead them? And if that was not reason enough, he had to survive for Bilbo. Even if Bilbo never spoke to him again, Thorin vowed to restore Erebor to its ancient greatness, to prove that all of Bilbo’s sacrifices mattered.

And somewhere in his heart, he pledged to survive long enough to be able to apologize to Bilbo. There was so much that needed to be said. But that could wait as long as was necessary. Thorin had learned how to be patient after decades of waiting for the right moment to recapture Erebor. And so he could use that same patience here. He could wait decades, if that’s how long it took. That much time seemed an easy sacrifice. Compared to fighting a dragon, though, most things would look like an easy sacrifice.

Thorin entered the armory, catching the eye of his nephews. They looked surprised to see their uncle so focused and poised, after having watched him break and suffer. They shared a smile, and then a hug. Before long, Thorin had rolled up his sleeves, helping in the effort to find all suitable weapons and armor for the battle to come.

There was work to be done, and so little time to do it in.


End file.
